A Girl With a Pink Ribbon
by wiis
Summary: 'Sometimes I wish I were one of them, but I know I never will be. I never have been.' A story of a young Robert Chase.


**Author's Note**: _This story started out as a writing exercise but, somehow, turned into a story about a young Robert Chase._

**Disclaimer:** _Luckily for you, I don't own House M.D. or any of its characters._

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I sit by the large tree in the secluded section of the schoolyard, taking cover underneath its vibrant green leaves. It's not that I'm hiding; I just don't want to be seen.

As I press my teared backpack tightly against my chest, I feel nothing but its ominous hollowness. It's empty. Again. It's always empty.

In a desperate attempt to ignore my ever growling stomach, I look out over the school and its premises. I see the other children, playing happily with their friends. Smiling, laughing, talking. Sometimes I wish I were one of them, but I know I never will be. I never have been.

At the colorful swing set I often admire from afar, a girl with a pink ribbon supporting her flowing, golden hair is sitting by herself. Her legs are moving continuously back and forth, making the swing go higher and higher into the air. It's almost as if she's flying. Just like a bird.

Although the girl is beautiful, she is not what has gotten my attention. On the soft sand beside her is a lunchbox. Bright pink, just like her ribbon. Before I know it, I'm on my feet, quickly, but quietly, making my way over to the girl. I choose my path wisely; making sure no one sees me. Hears me. Notices me.  
I grab hold of the small lunchbox and stuff it into my awaiting bag, before I start running as fast as my feet will let me. Somewhere, I can hear someone yelling, but I'm not listening. I know it's the girl. The poor girl who's lunch I just stole. I don't want to hear it.

I'm almost completely out of harm's way when I feel a rough hand on my slender shoulder and my heart immediately drops down to my stomach. I didn't make it. I failed.

I slowly turn around to face my capturer, keeping my eyes to the ground. It's the principal. He motions for me to follow him, and I do so without complaint. If I had the energy I would've made another dash for it, but I don't. My body is completely drained. Instead, I shortly find myself in the principal's office, on a chair that is too big for me, staring solemnly down at the floor. I still haven't dared looking up at him, but I can feel his eyes burning into the top of my head.

"Robert… why?" I know he's waiting for me to say something – anything – but I have nothing to tell him. It's always the same. "Why did you take Josie McMahon's lunchbox?"

"I forgot mine at home," I say while, finally, making eye contact with my principal. He gives me a slight nod, but his face tells a completely different story. The older man doesn't believe me. I don't blame him.

I feel his eyes on me again. It's almost as if he's trying to pierce through my skin and peek into my soul. I know he can't possibly do that, however, he can see my clothes. They've gotten quite dirty and smell a bit like old washcloth. A few days ago, I attempted to clean them, and myself, in a puddle of water that had formed in our backyard, but it didn't help much. Although, it did make for a very cold night.

"You know I'm going to have to inform your mother," the principal says with a sigh. It's more of a statement than a question, and yes, I do know that. I've been dreading it though. Maybe I should've ignored my exhausted body and kept running anyway. I would still have been caught eventually but, at least, I would've been so with some food in my stomach. Now my mother will know, and for what? I'm so stupid.

There is nothing I can do as I watch the man call my mother, but I'm awfully grateful I can't hear both sides of the conversation. I don't need to hear my mother's voice, full of fake sincerity. Fake care. Fake worry. I'll hear her real voice soon enough.

I carefully examine the school head's dark, wooden desk. It's incredibly organized, much like the graying man himself. Nothing is out of place. Not the, seemingly important, pile of papers to the left, or even the jar of bronze paper clips right next to it. Everything has its place, and every place has its purpose.

It doesn't take long for my mother to arrive, and when she does I can feel the anger bottled up inside of her. She hides it, of course, but I know it's there. After thanking the principal for catching me, she grabs me by my arm and quickly pulls me out of the office. Out of the building. She's embarrassed. Embarrassed to have a son like me. I also can't help but notice the sharp smell of alcohol escaping her mouth.

When we reach her car, she pulls the door open before roughly pushing me inside, and as she positions herself behind the steering wheel, I barely care about the fact that she's drunk and in no condition to drive a car. I actually find myself wishing she'll lose control over it. That would, most certainly, be better than whatever is awaiting me when we get home. I wish we'd crash. I wish I were dead.

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**Author's Note:** _I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, feel free to let me know. If you didn't, constructive criticism is highly appreciated. It helps improve my writing!_


End file.
